Naughty or Nice
by ficscribbler
Summary: Marguerite’s reaction to meeting Roxton’s ex-wife isn’t quite what the others expect.


**Naughty or Nice **

Summary: _Marguerite's reaction to meeting Roxton's ex-wife isn't quite what the others expect_.

Disclaimer: _The Lost World_ does not belong to me. *_Regretful sigh_* Honors for the original concept belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the most recent television incarnation belongs to _Coote/Hayes_, _The Over The Hill Gang_, _New Line Television_, et al, ...

*****

Ordinarily, no one would dream of accusing Lord John Richard Roxton of being a coward.

But then again, he'd never before had to face his beloved for the first time since she'd found out that he'd once been married but hadn't told her.

It was a fact he'd simply never thought to mention; his short-lived status as a husband hadn't left any lasting impact on his life… until now. But given the number of times Roxton had lectured Marguerite about not being so bloody secretive about her past, she would undoubtedly be furious with him for this omission. And as if sudden exposure of his marital history weren't bad enough, there was the equally unexpected and deeply disturbing revelation that his former bride had usurped the identity and birthright for which Marguerite had searched all her life. Switched in infancy, the woman that had lived the life that should've been Marguerite's had also been given the title of Lady Roxton, however briefly.

He wasn't sure which of the two discoveries were worse in his lady's eyes, but there was no doubt that she had plenty of cause to be angry. Considering that his beautiful brunette was perfectly capable either of outright killing or of inventing any number of less-permanent but extremely painful retributions, neither Roxton nor their housemates had any doubt that he was due for some serious suffering.

It wasn't that John was afraid to confront her. In fact, he was anxious for some time to spend with her so they could sort it all out. But there hadn't been a single moment since his ex-wife and her companions appeared just beyond the electric fence – had it been only a mere day ago? – for the alarmed nobleman to take his hard-won lady aside to do any explaining about his unmentioned marriage, let alone to find out how she was dealing with the finally-revealed truths about her birth and real identity. If he was reeling from what they'd learned in the last twenty-four hours, what must Marguerite be feeling?!

He'd caught her eye as often as he could during the running battle for their lives that had begun almost before the unexpected visitors had introduced themselves. He was pretty sure she hadn't been deliberately avoiding him, and she'd displayed no outward sign of being furious with him. But he'd seen the darkness that had shadowed her green eyes as one detail after another had been revealed by Roxton's malicious first wife, and he knew – each of the housemates knew – that she must be hurting. They'd all been positive there was going to be hell to pay once the immediate crisis was over.

The desperate conflict had forced them to abandon the treehouse during the night, fighting a running battle across the plateau to the other side of the jungle, to the edge of the horsemen's wide plain. There, with the hot tropical sun beating down on their heads, they'd had their final confrontation with Lady Roxton and her remaining dozen cohorts. It had been a grueling battle, but by working together, they'd once again managed to win the day. Since the last echo of gunfire had faded thirty minutes ago, each member of Marguerite's makeshift family had been glancing surreptitiously at her, expecting Lord Roxton's reckoning to begin at any moment.

But Marguerite hadn't exploded… yet. When the final enemy had fallen, she'd holstered her pistol without looking at any of her friends. "I'll stand guard," she'd said flatly, turned her back on the battle-scarred, corpse-strewn field, and walked away to pace silently back and forth along the edge of the jungle. Her severely upright posture and refusal to meet anyone's eye made it abundantly clear that she didn't want company.

Veronica's first instinct had been to follow her, to offer comfort, but she'd hesitated and looked uncertainly toward Roxton. He'd hesitated before slowly shaking his head; Marguerite needed time to process everything. The jungle-born blonde had nodded and accepted his judgment. She knew as well as the men did that the troubled brunette would not welcome sympathetic company until she was ready. Until that time, any move toward her was likely to be counterproductive. All they could do was wait and watch for any sign of an opening.

Roxton's heart was warmed by the unqualified support their friends had shown during this very trying time. There hadn't been an opportunity for explanations to his housemates any more than there'd been time to talk with Marguerite, but not even a hint of condemnation was evident in either their eyes or voices. It meant a great deal to him that they believed in him without having to hear his side of the story. It meant even more to know that they were equally willing to support his beloved. It was good for her to witness their friends' loyalty, because her past had left her with far too much reason to expect the opposite.

As for himself, he was willing to give her as much time as she wanted to come to terms with the slew of new revelations before they discussed anything. There was no question about whether she would let this pass without making him suffer; payback was inevitable. He didn't fear whatever she might dish out, merely accepted that his odds of surviving relatively unscathed were a lot better if he left her alone until she was ready to talk. So for the time being, since he'd already noted that she was physically fine apart from some minor abrasions, bruises and the usual worse-for-wear, post-battle condition of her clothing, he honored her decision to separate herself from her friends. Meanwhile he prepared himself to do whatever it took to prove his love anew, including enduring any punishment she might elect to inflict once she'd come to grips with everything.

Even on her worst days, preoccupied or not, Marguerite had always been perfectly capable of standing effective watch for approaching danger, so the others had no qualms about focusing on the necessary cleanup and leaving the perimeter in her hands. While Roxton prudently confirmed that each of their downed foes was no longer a threat, Veronica jogged to a nearby stream with a couple of the canteens, and brought back water for use in tending the various injuries they'd suffered. Ned, of course, was the worst off, his head having once again suffered several blows. George deftly stitched up the most severe of the reporter's head gashed and other bodily injuries before he allowed the young blonde huntress to take over Ned's care. Only then did the scientist cleanse and bandage his own and Roxton's latest war wounds, leaving Ned to tend to Veronica's numerous nicks and scratches when she was done nursing him.

Thankfully, their injuries weren't serious, and it wasn't many minutes before John and George were ready for the next task. Circling the field of battle, the two men collected guns, ammunition pouches, and sundry items that might prove useful, stacking everything near where Veronica was tending to Ned's remaining injuries.

Yet John's gaze continually returned to Marguerite. More than once he noticed the concerned, sympathetic glances of their friends as they, too, kept an eye on the dark-haired beauty whose world had been turned upside down. She had to be shaken to the core over everything that had been revealed in the twenty-four hours. There'd been so much detail coming at them so quickly, so many answers to questions she'd been asking for most of her life, that Marguerite would doubtless struggle with the implications for quite some time.

John suspected, in fact, that all five of them were going to need time and more than a few "round table" discussions to sort out everything that had happened. He knew it was bouncing around in his mind without cohesive chronological order – or any other kind of order, for that matter; it was too tangled with his worry for Marguerite and his concern for Veronica and the Plateau… truth be told, though, his swirling thoughts dwelt mostly on his fear over the impact on his lady.

The European search party had emerged from the jungle almost without warning – which had been the first thing to make the vigilant treehouse dwellers suspicious. It had been a large group, too large to have gotten so close without any prior evidence of their proximity. Clad in the usual expedition garb, well armed and well provisioned, the party included about two dozen white men, along with the obligatory larger number of heavily-laden native bearers. When the group neared the electric fence, they'd halted and the South American guide had called up to the treehouse with a heavily-Spanish accent, "Are any members of the Challenger Expedition here?"

While the ginger-haired scientist and Lord Roxton descended to the compound, Ned, Veronica, and Marguerite remained on guard above. The moment the two men had stepped off the lift, one of the figures in the midst of the group had swept off a broad-brimmed safari hat and revealed herself to be a beautiful raven-haired woman as she eagerly rushed forward, both hands extended to the startled hunter on the other side of the fence wires. "John," she'd said warmly, "We've finally found you!" When he hadn't responded, just stared, unmoving, she'd laughed at his slack-jawed stance and teased, "Now you can't have forgotten your own wife."

"Wife?!" Challenger had repeated with a startled look toward his friend, followed by a quick glance up toward the trio on the balcony above them.

"Did she say 'wife'?" Ned had whispered to Veronica, casting a sideways look at Marguerite, who had gasped and paled as the lady's cultured tone drifted up to the balcony.

Before anything else could be said, arrows had whistled from all sides, and half of the newly-arrived expedition was killed as they attempted to squeeze through the gate into the compound. The slaughter would have been worse, if not for the effective defensive cover fire laid down by Ned and Marguerite from above and by Roxton from the ground while the newcomers were shepherded into the lift by George and raised to safety by Veronica. Lady Roxton was one of those who survived, shielded by her comrades from the native warriors that sprang forth in ambush all around the treehouse compound.

Lady Roxton. It was her legal name because Loren had married the man Marguerite loved. That same woman, as it turned out, had grown up in the home that should have been Marguerite's, had been loved by the parents who had conceived Marguerite, and had enjoyed all the financial security and social advantages that should have been Marguerite's – not that those particular details had come to light right away. No, the malicious revelations had spilled from Roxton's beautiful-but-vindictive bride's lips one by one, verbal blow after verbal blow aimed directly at the uncharacteristically silent brunette as the battle had raged on. There'd been no time to discuss any of it while they'd been fighting for their lives.

The native attack on the ground had been a ploy to earn the strangers access to the treehouse. The rescued "victims" had quickly overpowered Marguerite, Ned, and Veronica, then used them as hostages to force Roxton to yield. But the intruders moved too fast for their own good.

Only as they reorganized did the intruders realize that neither the group that had made it into the treehouse nor the ones down on the ground had George Challenger in custody.

Once he'd escorted the second group of 'guests' up in the lift, the quick-witted scientist had exited the elevator and run straight down to his lab. His intention had been to retrieve gunpowder bombs from his lab so he could provide cover for John to make it up from the compound, too. But he'd only lobbed a couple coconut bombs into the ring of natives on the ground outside the fence when his attention had been caught by the commotion on the floor above him. He'd paused to listen, and had barely suspected the ruse before it was confirmed by Lady Roxton's smug demand for Roxton's surrender, voiced from the upper balcony.

Knowing they were severely outnumbered, Challenger concealed himself in an unlikely nook while the intruders were still waiting for John to ride the lift up under guard of two men from the compound. As George wisely remained still and waited for the chance to free his friends, he'd deftly modified one of the coconut bombs still in his pocket, turning it into a more-or-less harmless incendiary device that would serve as a diversion.

His chance had come sooner than he expected; their captors hadn't counted on the fact that the unpredictable nature of the plateau had led the treehouse occupants to cache weapons in multiple areas even within their home. The moment the prisoners were herded within reach of one of these stashes, Challenger seized the opportunity and launched one of his distractions around the curve of the lower hallway.

The surprised guards left their prisoners untended as they dashed to the location of the fireworks.

It was only seconds until Challenger had freed Roxton and Veronica, who swiftly re-armed themselves and defended the others while George untied them, too. Accustomed to reacting at a moment's notice, the five of them quickly threw the treehouse's occupying force into disarray.

But they'd still been heavily outnumbered, and rather than risk the destruction of the treehouse Veronica had commanded that her housemates abandon their home while it was still intact. They'd hit the ground running, heading for one of the supply caches Roxton had prepared for just such emergencies, with a frustrated Lady Roxton and the remnants of her cohorts not far behind – not two separate groups after all, but a single group of attackers made up of both tribesmen and outsiders.

Things had moved so fast… It was hard to comprehend the fact that Lady Loren Roxton had cold-bloodedly planned the partial slaughter of members of her own entourage, people who'd traveled to the South American plateau with her. In truth, her entire party had been expendable in her quest. The vindictive woman's entire purpose in life appeared to have been to capture and torture, or, failing that, to simply kill the man she'd married, his beloved Marguerite – or Veronica.

Loren's animosity toward Roxton and Marguerite could have been written off as jealousy or hatred – particularly after she revealed that the annulment papers had never gone through and she was still "legally" Lady Roxton. But although she hurled her oral barbs at Marguerite over the ensuing hours, she'd physically targeted Veronica even more often, and it had become evident that this wasn't just the wrath of a woman scorned. There was far more here than met the eye.

Although Lady Roxton had obviously delighted in flinging her venomous words at the stunned former heiress and the grim-faced nobleman, tormenting them had apparently been no more than a secondary goal. Loren hadn't been subtle about it, either. The beautiful spitfire had specifically directed her henchmen to concentrate their efforts on the plateau's Protector. Right to the end, both the native and European men of her forces had focused their efforts on taking out the agile blonde huntress, even if it left them vulnerable to attack from Veronica's friends.

Lady Roxton had mocked Roxton and Marguerite, taunted them with tidbits thrown out in the midst of the running confrontation across a dozen miles of jungle. Her scathing commentary had included mocking the parents that had raised her in Marguerite's place. She scornfully derided the couple for everything from their indulgence in providing more frocks than she'd ever been able to wear, to their "milksop" attachment to family holiday celebrations, to their pride in her ladylike accomplishments and delight about her advantageous marriage to young Lord Roxton.

John's not-so-ex-wife had intentionally used her knowledge to distract or divide them, shouting out yet another tidbit of information at moments designed to make them vulnerable to her men. The things she'd revealed about Marguerite's history and about herself throughout the series of face-offs had raised a whole new set of questions about the reasons for everything that had happened in Marguerite's past, and how it all tied to the plateau.

None of the treehouse residents had failed to note that Loren spoke the plateau's languages as fluently as she spoke the King's English, issuing her orders now in English, then in any of the several native tongues represented amongst the local members of her force. How had Loren learned such skills when she'd grown up on the estate next door to Avebury? Where and when had she made contact with her native allies, particularly a group from a plateau tribe Veronica said rarely associated with others? And why, when it became clear that the treehouse group had outfought her own forces, had Lady Roxton ignored a clear shot at John in favor of aiming her handgun directly at Veronica?

It had been touch and go for hours before the climactic clash. If Veronica and Roxton hadn't known the jungle so well, and if not for the experience they'd all gained on the plateau, the numbers and ample weaponry against them might have overwhelmed them. The housemates had fled through the night, fighting defensive battles all along the way. The small skirmishes had whittled down the size of Loren's force one or two men at a time, until Roxton and Veronica agreed that odds were as good as they were likely to get without their friends suffering any major injuries, and they should take their final stand here mid-morning. If not for their deep-seated trust in one another developed during their years of fighting together against the plateau's various inhabitants and shifting planes of reality…

Well, John and Veronica had estimated correctly. They'd won the day, once again beating the odds. But at what cost to Marguerite and Roxton? It had been John that fired the shot to save Veronica's life from Lady Roxton when she'd had the blonde dead in her sights. Regrettably, shooting Loren meant he'd killed the one person who appeared to have all of the answers Marguerite had sought for so long.

Now, as Veronica finished tending Ned and allowed him to finish cleaning and bandaging the gash where a knife had grazed her own forehead during the battle, her troubled sky blue eyes shifted repeatedly to check on her dark-haired friend. Ned muttered his usual rueful complaints about taking yet more blows to the head… but his gaze, too, drifted to their companion with a combination of compassion and concern. Even George's attention was equally divided between his tasks and watching Marguerite's lonely vigil. And all three of them cast equally caring looks at the man who had devoted himself to protecting the woman they each loved like a sister. They knew he couldn't leave her alone on the perimeter for much longer, no matter what she might do to him.

Roxton stacked the salvaged weaponry and used rope from his rucksack to bundle everything for transport back to the treehouse. He paused to recheck his Webleys and his rifle, and scanned the perimeter once more for any sign of new threats. Although Marguerite had been standing guard and it seemed quiet, one could never be too cautious. _A__ll this noise and blood could draw any of a dozen of the Plateau's predators – and how can we have fought for hours here without seeing a single one of the horsemen? Did Loren pay them off somehow? They consider this their territory; we have to stay alert._ Yet despite the need for vigilance, as soon as he'd assured himself that there was no sign of imminent danger, he turned his full attention to his lady.

Her back was rigidly straight, arms folded stiffly across her chest, jaw clenched as she continued her steady pacing between the battlefield and the jungle's edge. She hadn't looked back at the others once since she'd begun to stand watch, and Roxton was sure she was avoiding them... avoiding him.

It didn't take a genius to know her emotions were in turmoil. _Well, what else is to be expected? After all this, she has every right to be hurt and angry. She should be furious at being cheated of her life when someone stole her from her parents and left Loren in her place. Marguerite was made to feel that she had no place she belonged. She was left without family to love her and care for her. My marriage is really the least of the issues here, although it'll be the easiest thing for her to lash out about. No use delaying the inevitable any longer. She's either building up a head of steam to let me have it, or she's on the verge of tears. She's had more than enough time to think it through alone. Best talk to her now. She'll either strike out at me – maybe at all of us – or she'll try to shut everyone out and hide her pain. _He left the bundle of armaments near where Challenger was arranging other goods into packs, received an encouraging nod from his older friend, squared his shoulders and strode toward Marguerite.

She glanced over her shoulder as he neared, and to his relief, instead of turning away she slowly faced him. She briefly met his searching gaze before she looked down, chewed on her lower lip until he stood directly before her, and then, hesitantly, met his gaze again.

His brow furrowed as he saw neither anger nor sadness. She looked… confused? Uncertain? Vulnerable, half-afraid, half-wondering, very like the expression she'd worn when she'd finally admitted she loved him while they were trapped in that cave. But her arms were still wrapped tightly around herself, as if she was holding herself in check.

"Marguerite?" he asked softly, mindful of the way sound could carry. "What is it?"

She swallowed, her gaze instinctively skittering away. She cleared her throat and tilted her head a bit to the side. Her brow puckered just a little as she disciplined herself to look him in the eye again. "Do you… do you remember in that cave when you told me I deserved better… or more… or something to that effect… than I allow myself to have?" she asked hesitantly.

_Well, this isn't quite what I expected to be discussing._ He nodded and reached over to take her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. He'd said the same thing more than once since they'd been trapped in that cave. She never demurred, but he knew she disagreed. She'd accepted that he loved her, that the others loved her, too, but Marguerite didn't believe it would last because she didn't believe she deserved to be loved. He didn't know how to prove to her that she didn't need to be always waiting for the other shoe to drop, expecting them – expecting him – to change their minds. It seemed that only time could convince her.

She gratefully gripped his hand and let out a shaky breath. "You'll think I'm being foolish… Truth be told, I am being foolish!"

He shook his head, completely at a loss as to where this could be heading. "You can tell me anything. You know that. What is it?" He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.

She gestured toward the field behind him. "All this, everything that's happened. I should be trying to reason it out. I mean, I should be figuring out why that woman had it in for Veronica, what's really going on. That's what should be important here, figuring out what's behind her coming here and attacking us. But all I can think about…" she broke off, blushing, and her head dropped as she instinctively concealed her emotion.

Roxton frowned at the catch in her voice and tucked two fingers beneath her chin to tilt her face back up so he could search her expression. "What? What are you thinking about?"

She moistened her lips, barely able to meet his gaze. "She s-said… She said, in the middle of one those weird diatribes, when she was scoffing about getting insipid gifts…"

His jaw clenched. He'd seen the arrested look in Marguerite's green eyes when Loren had snickered as she went on and on about how her childhood had been filled with "sickeningly sweet" holidays, how she'd never been given the gifts she wanted, and how her whole youth had been wasted on nonsense while she waited for her chance at her true destiny. She'd griped about the education her father insisted on, the comportment lessons her mother had required of her, the young men she'd had to brush aside because of the arrangement made between Marguerite's parents and John's parents. Every time they'd been pinned down or cornered, while her men were gearing up for the next attack, the raven-haired beauty with the ice-cold green eyes had ranted resentfully about being stuck with living Marguerite's life.

Psychological warfare, Challenger had called it with a scowl marring his forehead. He'd told Marguerite and Roxton to ignore it, but how could they? Every word had twisted the proverbial knife deeper into the soul-deep hurts that had plagued Marguerite's entire life.

"I'm sorry you were robbed of your childhood, Marguerite," he said gruffly.

She shook her head. "No, that's not it. I mean, it is, but not the way you're thinking. John, she had everything I ever dreamed of. _Everything_."

Roxton frowned. "Yes, isn't that what I said?"

"No, you don't understand." She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and tried again, unsure how to explain what was preoccupying her so wholly. "You know that I traveled, moved around a lot as a child. A school here for a while, then somewhere else, sometimes a few months, sometimes longer, sometimes less …?"

He nodded. He'd upset her more than once by asking for details about a childhood she said she'd never really had. He knew that she'd never truly had a home, despite being adopted by a well-to-do family, and that she had very few good memories of her youth. Now, thanks to the woman he'd married in his youthful folly, they all knew that Marguerite had been stolen from the family and home where she should have been raised, that her childhood, home and family had been given to the faux-Marguerite instead. Loren had been given everything Marguerite had ever longed for, including being married to him and bearing the title of Lady Roxton. _So what am I not understanding?_ he wondered, but this time he waited for her to continue.

"Nearly every place I lived, every country, had one thing in common, a December holiday with a character like St. Nicholas… Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, Christkindel, Pere Noel, Sinter Klass… or someone with similarly themed behavior, like Babouschka, La Befana, Jultomten, …" She took another deep breath and searched his face for any sign that he was catching on. He clearly wasn't, so she quietly went on. "Well, I noticed that almost all of these holiday versions included the concept that good children received good gifts, while children who misbehaved either received nothing or were given things like a lump of coal."

He couldn't help but chuckle a little. "Yes, William and I always worked very hard to be extra good in the last few weeks before Father Christmas was due."

She rewarded him with a small smile. "Exactly. Of course, I was well aware that I wasn't as well-behaved as I should be – I'd had my knuckles rapped or been paddled or isolated in a cupboard often enough. I decided that my disobedience must be the reason I'd never had any Christmas gifts. I was positive that if I was good enough, I would have something left in my stocking. I thought perhaps my adoptive family might even send for me to come home for the holiday." She paused, glancing nervously toward their friends, and lowered her voice to a near whisper as she confided, "But not only did I not get to go home, I was the only one who had nothing at all in her stocking. The other girls said I must have been naughty. I thought … perhaps I'd just started too late that year, that if only I could behave all year, then it would be different. So I determined that I was going to be perfect, I was going to prove that I wasn't naughty."

He sucked in his breath as it dawned on him where this was going, and he gripped her hand more tightly. He almost couldn't bear to hear what he knew had to be coming.

"I swear to you, John, I was perfect the whole year. I worked at it with all my heart," she said earnestly, holding his gaze and willing him to believe her. "I obeyed every rule, used my best penmanship for every single thing I wrote, memorized all my lessons letter perfect, cleaned my plate at every meal no matter what was served, did every chore, set every stitch perfectly, kept my room clean, didn't answer back even if someone else was wrong and I was right – which happened a lot, I can tell you! I went to bed on time, brushed my hair one hundred times every morning and every night, didn't play any games that might dirty my frock, wrote a letter to my adoptive family every single week without fail, minded my manners… Even when I was sent to a different school twice that year, I behaved. In that whole year, I didn't lose a single one of my belongings, and I didn't spend my pocket money on sweets but gave it to the beggars on the street, and I wasn't called into Headmistress's office, not once all year."

Grimly, Roxton said, "And you still got nothing."

She nodded, tears filling her eyes, and he could feel her hand trembling in his although she was still maintaining rigid control of the rest of her body.

She didn't have to say anything else. He knew now why she had so much trouble believing that she deserved to be loved. With this one story of her past, he understood how she had come to believe that there was something bad inside her that meant she would never be given a stocking filled with presents no matter how well she behaved or how hard she worked to earn it.

Marguerite swallowed back a sob, and gestured a bit jerkily toward the field of battle again. "All of this – something or someone is threatening Veronica, threatening all of us. There's something coming, something dangerous. This isn't over, and I should be focusing all my energies, all the skills I've learned as Parsifal, everything I know, on helping Challenger figure out how to protect Veronica and the Plateau. But all I can think about is what she said about her Christmases. John, crazy as it sounds, those things I hoped for and never got – she got them."

This time he knew what she meant. Loren had sneered about the despised gifts she'd received. "The fripperies she never wanted – the red hair ribbon, the china doll… and the silver ring!" he repeated a few of the specific items Lady Roxton had disparaged.

Marguerite nodded; it was taking all her considerable self-control not to break down. "But those things were exactly what I hoped to find in my stocking that year, John. I know this Christmas stocking lore isn't based in anything real. I _know_ that whether you get a present or a lump of coal or nothing at all doesn't have anything to do with whether you're a good person or a bad person. I mean, it makes no sense to believe it – it's a child's tale. But somehow," she drew a tremulous breath, and clung tightly to his hand. "For the first time in years… I can't shake the thought that the reason my stocking was empty back then _wasn't _because there was nothing good in me. It was because _she_ got my gifts, because I wasn't where I was supposed to be. John, I think…" her voice cracked, and she broke off long enough to regain tentative control of her emotions, then clutched his hand to her heart and smiled mistily up at him, her thick-lashed green eyes shining with that look that told him she _wanted_ to believe this as much as she'd wanted to believe he loved her, and was every bit as scared to voice this as she'd been to admit that she loved him.

He held his tongue. It was important for her to say it. It wouldn't be real to her until she did. He squeezed her fingers, willing his strength to her. _Come on, Marguerite. You can do it._

All in a rush, like when she'd blurted out those all-important three words in the cave, she said, "I think maybe it was _her_ who had the evil inside, not me. Maybe you were right; maybe my soul isn't as worse for wear as I've thought. Maybe I really do deserve better than I thought."

And as she had in that cave, she waited with bated breath for his response, waited for her words to be accepted or rejected by the one person whose opinion most mattered to her.

He smiled tenderly down at her. "Of course you deserve better than you thought, my dear. It makes perfect sense to me. Haven't I been telling you for ages now that you're a better person than you think? You know I'm always right," he teased.

"Right for me," she whispered, much to his delight, repeating the words she'd spoken to him as they'd run from the German ghost village almost a year ago.

"You're not feverish, are you? You're not going to claim again that you're not yourself, are you?" he teased, and hugged her close and pressed his lips to her forehead before he warned, "I'm going to hold you to it this time, Miss Krux."

She hugged him back, almost giddy with relief. He hadn't mocked her, or scolded her for being preoccupied with such an absurd notion. He understood! "Oh, I wouldn't take it back, Lord Roxton. That would be naughty, and haven't we just agreed that I'm nice?"

He laughed at the mischief now gleaming in her twinkling eyes. "So we did!"

"Hey you two!"

They stepped away from one another, startled, and turned to find that their friends had gathered up the bundled weapons and supplies, and had crossed to the edge of the jungle near them, ready to leave.

"Don't you think we'd better be heading home now?" Veronica's stern tone was belied by her smile at having witnessed a moment she was sure was a milestone for the couple.

"I'm not sure that would be safe," came Marguerite's surprising reply.

Everyone blinked.

The brunette turned an innocently inquisitive gaze toward her beau. "First we'd better ask Lord No-Secrets Roxton here whether he has any other wives around who might want to kill us."

He winced. Naughty or nice, she was definitely going to make him pay.

***

**Author's Note:** It was the song "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" that sparked the idea for this fanfic. However, Marguerite's use of these specific words would have been totally coincidental. Although the idea of good children receiving gifts was well established before Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote _The Lost World_, the phrase "naughty or nice" was not specifically associated with Christmas until J Fred Coots and Haven Gillespie collaborated on their song "Santa Claus Is Coming To Town" in June 1934, long after this conversation occurred between Marguerite and Roxton on the Plateau. (see )


End file.
